


Nothing to Forgive

by Sineala



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Angst, Avengers Vol. 7 (2017), Cap_Ironman Holiday Gift Exchange 2017, Community: cap_ironman, Forgiveness, Getting Together, Introspection, M/M, Road Trips, Secret Empire (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-14 03:30:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12998907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: Steve's roadtrip across America is derailed by the news that Tony's comatose body  has disappeared. He unhesitatingly volunteers to join the search, even as he wonders what Tony will think of him when he finds him, and if their relationship can ever be the same again.





	Nothing to Forgive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HeroSkatman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeroSkatman/gifts).



> HeroSkatman requested a story about post-Secret Empire Steve searching for Tony; I hope this satisfies!
> 
> This story was (deliberately) written when Marvel Legacy had just started; it was finished the day before Cap #695 came out, as I didn't want what Waid and Bendis actually did in canon with Steve and Tony to interfere with where I wanted to take the fic. So this is not at all where canon went, but it is hopefully to your liking. Happy holidays!
> 
> Thanks to Kiyaar for beta!

One hotel room is a lot like another, really.

Steve's done this before, the road trip thing. Years ago. He and Bernie had broken up, and he'd decided that he'd really needed to listen to the people of America, to reconnect with them. He'd had that hotline. He'd had that van that T'Challa had fixed up for him. He'd driven across the country and drawn Captain America comics and been swept off his feet by Rachel and the rest of the Serpent Society -- all right, mostly Rachel -- and he'd done what he'd meant to do. He'd reconnected.

That was nothing like this. He's got his head down and his shield in a bag. He's just barely too proud for an image inducer, but that doesn't mean he didn't think about it. The only thing that stopped him was that getting one would have meant explaining to someone -- probably Pepper over at SI -- exactly what he wanted it for, and that would have meant telling them where he was going. Even Sam doesn't know.

Even _he_ doesn't know, to be honest.

He hopes maybe he'll figure it out on the way. He needs to see the country again. He's lost touch. Just like last time.

And he-- he needs to atone.

Oh, _he_ doesn't, technically. It wasn't him. It was that other Steve Rogers. But Steve saw everything he did, there in that pool, in Kobik's forest. The other Steve Rogers did what he did in Steve's name, with Steve's face. He committed atrocities made possible because of Steve's reputation. Sure, it's not like Steve's going to face charges -- but when people look at him now, they see him and they think first of the monster who spent the past year ruining their lives.

As if on cue, the flickering television at the foot of the sagging motel twin bed switches to a commercial break, and it shows him his own face. It's overblown, a few steps short of a propaganda piece. He's in his old Cap uniform, smiling, superimposed over blue skies. There are shots of him shaking hands, smiling more, carrying injured civilians out of buildings, determined and streaked with grime. There's him kneeling down and talking to a child.

"Remember," the voiceover says, "the real Captain America is back! And he's always looking out for you. He only wants to help you, like he always did. He's your hero."

The tiny text at the bottom of the screen reads _a public service announcement brought to you by Stark International_.

Steve bites his lip, a sudden sharp pain. _Tony._

Now there's someone who knows about carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. There's someone who knows about evil twins, mind control, brainwashing, altered realities. Atrocities done in his name. Tony would know how to move on. Tony would know how to get past this. Maybe Tony would be nicer than the rest of the world; Tony won't remember Hydra's reign. Strictly speaking, Steve doesn't remember anything since Pleasant Hill. All he knows is what he's seen. They'd have that much in common.

Maybe Tony would forgive him.

And Tony's comatose in New Jersey because Steve's evil twin knew exactly where Tony's weak spots were, pushed them in exquisitely precise ways, and sent Tony into a war with Carol that got Tony shot down on the steps of the Capitol.

So, yeah, Steve needs to atone for that, too.

Oh, he knows Tony has an AI; he's met him. Tony's AI is, in fact, happily spending Tony's money to convince the world Steve's all better now. It's a kind gesture. But he wants--

He wants to talk to Tony, the one he knew. The one who belongs in that body.

(Tony would probably just laugh and tell him not to be so sentimental and old-fashioned. Tony would tell him he's still him even if he's made of ones and zeros. Steve knows it's him too. That doesn't change the fantasy.)

(He wants to _touch_ him. You can't do that with an AI.)

Steve could turn around now. He could head back to New York. Stop off in Jersey. He could at least see Tony. Maybe see if they've made any progress waking him up.

But he's not done out here yet. Whatever he needs, he knows he hasn't found it.

The television flickers again, and there's a translucent pink woman in a business suit staring straight into the camera. The effect is unnerving. It's like she's looking right at him. Her lips are thinned, her face taut and urgent. They can do all sorts of things with special effects and holograms these days.

"Captain," she says. Steve's already primed for that word. He waits for the shot to cut away, for another captain to come on screen. Someone more deserving of the title than he is right now, anyway.

He wonders what's happening next on this show. He doesn't think this is what he was watching.

"Captain Rogers, I need you to listen to me," she says, and Steve sits up straight, because, what the hell? "Say something if you're hearing me, Captain."

Steve stares. "You can hear me?"

She nods. "I can hear you. You know me, Captain. Tony made me."

He remembers her now. One of Tony's AIs. An old one, from the days when they still lived in the mansion. "Friday?"

Friday smiles tightly. "That's the name." She leans in, closer to the camera. "Pepper and Riri and Amanda, they don't know I'm telling you this. Even Tony's AI doesn't know. But the original Tony -- I know he'd want you to know first."

Steve feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. "Is he-- what happened? Is he dead?"

God oh God, please don't let him be dead. Blind panic seizes Steve. He understands, in one sudden shocking realization, why Tony deleted his memories after Steve died. No one wants to feel like this.

Friday shakes her head. Thank God. "Not as far as we know. But we... we can't find him. He's not where we left him. And we can't track him. Either he got up and walked out, or someone took him." She meets his gaze, imploring. "We need your help, Captain."

"You have it," he says. "I'll do all I can."

He'll do anything for Tony. He always would have.

He knows what he has to do. This is his mission. He can find him. Bring him home.

* * *

Steve spends three hours filling an entire notebook with what he knows. What Friday knows. All the data, not that there is much. A search radius extending out from the eastern seaboard. Steve's in... Nebraska, somewhere. He's not in that little tri-state bubble anymore, no sir.

Friday's thought -- representing, of course, the consensus opinion of the SI folks -- is that Doom is somehow involved.

Apparently Doom is Iron Man now. Steve had laughed, but it turned out she hadn't been joking.

It could be Doom. God knows Doom and Tony have always had a complicated relationship. But right now Steve's just going to operate on the assumption that it isn't Doom, for the reason that if it is Doom, there's not much Steve can do about it from here. Magic is generally above Steve's pay grade.

He remembers Tony's well-worn phrase and hears himself laugh bitterly, swamped by longing and nostalgia.

It's not like he likes magic either. But he's not in Latveria -- he's not even sure if _Doom_ is in Latveria -- and if Tony's in some extradimensional magic prison he's certainly never going to find him.

So he's just going to assume Tony's still here. In the United States.

Steve's vaunted optimism has taken a lot of hits lately. It's a big country.

He doesn't have the faintest idea where to start.

* * *

When he sleeps, he dreams of Tony.

He often dreams of Tony. He's known Tony for ten years, and Tony's one of his closest friends, so it only makes sense that Tony would be a recurring star. Sometimes his dreams are memories, or close to it; all the times, good and bad, that they've shared. Sometimes he dreams them into new and terrifying missions, Tony in peril and Steve too late to save him. (Sometimes, of course, they're the kind of dreams where Tony smiles one of _those_ smiles and leans close and starts unbuttoning Steve's shirt for him, sliding into Steve's arms like he's always been there, and Steve wakes up lonely and aching.)

This isn't one of those dreams.

He's in Los Angeles, at Tony's old Stark Enterprises headquarters. These are the days when he was The Captain, when he carved out another new identity for himself. He's holding the shield Tony made him in his hands. The weight of the shield, different from the one he's used to, brings back another memory. This is days before Tony and the Guardsmen, days before they fight for the first time ever.

This is them before they were broken.

He looks up from the shield in his hands and he expects to see Tony the way he looked then: longer hair styled into the curls Steve always secretly liked, a full mustache, a suit that today even Steve would call dated.

Instead, he sees Tony the way he saw him last, the way he remembers him from those days in Pleasant Hill. Tony's hair is more modern, his beard trimmed the way he's had it for a few years now. Rather than a business suit, he's clad in armor, the last armor Steve remembers seeing him in, with its strange angular unibeam housing. Tony just stares at him in silence. His eyes are a pale, clear blue, shockingly bright. He's blinking too much. He's staring at Steve like Steve is a lifeline.

"Steve," Tony breathes. His voice is rough. Hoarse. "I miss you."

He looks like he's going to cry.

And Steve--

\--wakes up.

He's alone. He's blinking back tears and he doesn't quite know why.

But he knows where to go. West. California.

The West Coast Avengers may not be a team anymore, but Steve knows that the west coast is where Tony goes when he needs a new life. He went to Los Angeles for the WCA. He went to Silicon Valley for Circuits Maximus. He doesn't even remember this, but when Yinsen's son was playing games with his mind he fled to Sal in Berkeley. For God's sake, he went to San Francisco when Red Onslaught had inverted him.

It's a pattern. And Steve may not be any kind of futurist, but he's enough of a tactician to recognize a pattern when he sees one.

If Tony's in control of what he's doing, if Tony wants to be someone else, to disappear, that's where he'll start.

Sure, it's still an entire state -- and a gigantic one at that -- but it's better than nothing.

He sits up, wipes his face off, and fumbles for his motorcycle keys on the nightstand. No time like the present.

* * *

Traveling incognito means no flying, so even though Steve has more of a destination in mind now, he still has to finish this out as a proper road trip. The landscape blurs: truck stops, IHOPs, endless motels. Plains and plains and more plains. Mountains. Desert. He cuts south on I-15 through Utah. He has vague notions of starting his search in Los Angeles, where Tony's new life once started, where he picked himself up, got sober, and put himself back together. The beginning. Always a good place to start.

By the time he hits Nevada he's so relieved to be one state away from his goal that he's not even thinking about being in Nevada. Which is a problem.

Twenty-five miles out from what used to be Las Vegas, he sees the first of the emergency roadblock signs, and that's when he figures out why he hasn't seen much of anyone heading this way since Utah.

There are signs every mile.

Five miles out, he hits the roadblock itself. He has to pull over onto the side of the deserted road. His heart's pounding in his chest and he's sick with a guilt that isn't his.

There's nothing there anymore. Nothing but rubble. His counterpart made certain of that.

He loves Tony, and he knows Tony loves him, but the idea that he might find Tony and Tony might forgive him this -- might forgive _anyone_ this -- well. It beggars belief.

That's his fantasy now: absolution.

He knows it's been one of Tony's for a long, long time. He thinks maybe they have more in common than they used to.

Steve takes a shuddering breath. He's going to find Tony. They can figure out the rest later.

The bike roars to life under Steve, and he turns around. He's going to backtrack, head up I-95, hit Reno, then head west. It'll be San Francisco first.

He remembers Tony's electric blue eyes. He remembers Tony, silver-armored, inverted, reigning over San Francisco from Alcatraz like it was his own personal fiefdom. He remembers Tony laughing, grinning, glorying in destruction and pain. He remembers red skies over Manhattan, the last incursion, the end of the world. He remembers bringing his shield down over and over on the face of a man who used to be his friend.

So much for beginnings. They'll start from the end.

* * *

Finding Tony, Steve realizes, is not going to be as easy as he had thought.

He half-expected to see Tony here, the last place everything had gone wrong, trying to make it up to humanity. He never visited Tony here, but he knows Tony lived on Alcatraz; he'd converted the island to his own personal den of iniquity and vice. SHIELD had kept Steve briefed. He'd seen pictures, and he'd seethed.

But that was before the end of the world, and it was before Kobik, and either one of those things means that reality is not as he remembers it. He's at Fisherman's Wharf, looking out over the bay, and he can see Alcatraz Island from here. It's not a supervillain's lair. It's not a gleaming architectural triumph in glass and steel, the showy buildings Tony always likes to commission. It's just an abandoned prison, the same as it's been since Steve came out of the ice. (It was a working prison when he went into the ice. But he is, as Tony has always liked to remind him, an old man.)

There are no traces of Tony to be found here. Steve stares north and squints into the wind, hoping if he waits, it will change. Nothing.

Well, it was worth a try.

He sighs and turns away. Time to plan his next move.

Abruptly, Steve realizes he's hungry. Starving, actually. He was pushing himself pretty hard to get here, and he didn't make many stops on the way.

With a few quick taps on his phone -- don't tell the teenage Avengers, but he does know how to use a smartphone -- he gets a list of local restaurants. Everything right here is ridiculously touristy, of course. But then there's the Ferry Building, which has a farmer's market going, as well as the restaurants, and if it's still touristy it's at least a different class of touristy.

Besides, he did want to see America. And the walk will do him good.

He heads east and south along the waterfront, along the Embarcadero as it curves around. The day is foggy, but it's a bright kind of fog rather than a gloomy one. So maybe San Francisco isn't the right place, Steve thinks, as he shoulders the shield in its concealing bag and heads into the Ferry Building's marketplace, but coming here still feels like a good idea.

He'll head south next. He'll see how many of Tony's old business locations he can hit up. He just needs some food in him first. The empanada place looked good on the website. He'll just eat and be on his way.

That's when Steve sees the man.

There are a lot of men here, of course -- the building is huge and crowded -- but something about this man catches his eye. He can't say what it is, exactly. The stranger is standing just outside one of the coffeeshops, about twenty feet away, paper cup of coffee in his left hand. He doesn't look like anyone Steve knows. He's tall, maybe about Steve's height. He's blond, his fine hair close-cropped almost to his scalp. Not Steve or Carol's golden-blond, not Clint's ash-blond, and not that platinum bottle-blond Tony resorts to when he's trying to blend in. He's just a plain blond. Unremarkable. His eyes are a muddy hazel. His face is soft, almost blurred, his bone structure muted by heavy flesh. He's wearing a windbreaker, a blue polo shirt, and khakis. He's probably a tourist. One of a thousand. But something about him has drawn Steve's attention, and Steve has no idea why.

The man turns, briefly in profile, cradling his coffee as he begins to walk away. That's when Steve starts putting together what he saw but didn't know how to interpret at first: the stranger moves wrong. He moves _right_ , and that's wrong. He moves like people Steve has worked with, heroes he's trained. He moves like he expects people are always looking at him, even though no one should be. He moves with a graceful economy of motion, like he knows how to take out any threat he sees. He's not a tourist taking in the sights.

And, damn it, he just seems _familiar_. Steve knows him. He knows he knows him. He has to. Somehow. Even if he can't place the face.

Then the man glances up, and his searching, wary gaze passes over Steve -- and there's a shock of recognition. His eyes widen. His face pales. It doesn't look like a particularly pleasant shock.

Whoever this man is, he knows who Steve is.

No one else on this trip has recognized Steve so far. People see what they expect to see, and when people look at Captain America, they look at the uniform more than anything else. They always expect to see him in uniform, and it never seems to occur to them that there's an actual man under it. Oh, his identity isn't completely secret anymore -- but for the most part, he's relatively anonymous. Except, of course, to people who actually know what he looks like with the cowl off.

There are two choices for why this stranger knows him, and Steve doesn't like either of them. One, he's a villain out of costume, who recognizes him; he can't be a hero, because Steve would know him, but an awful lot of villains still swear by masks and secret identities. Two, even worse, is that this stranger knows his face because he knows his counterpart, the man who led Hydra, who ruined the world. And he's judging him for it.

Sick, heartbroken, Steve realizes he'll probably be facing a lot more of that.

The stranger begins to back away through the crowd. He's trying to run. Oh, he's not actually _running_. That would be obvious. That would draw attention. But he keeps glancing back in Steve's direction as he edges away, looking without looking at him directly.

Yeah. He's definitely trying to run.

"Excuse me," Steve says to the two women in front of him.

He pushes between them and he follows the stranger at a rapid walk. They're out of the building and back outside, and Steve revises his earlier guess: whatever this guy is doing, it's not running. And it's not fighting. He's not a threat.

He just... wants Steve to follow him.

Okay. Steve can do that.

He keeps one hand behind him, braced on the rim of his shield, still nestled in his pack, as the stranger darts around gawking tourists taking selfies, then through a crowd, and-- wait, he's lost him--

There's a hand on his wrist.

He looks down. The stranger is tugging him away, over to a space where the crowds have finally thinned out.

Dropping Steve's wrist, the man looks him straight in the eye with an emotion that looks a hell of a lot like regret, and he runs his hand through his bristle-short hair and over his scalp. His hair is too short for the gesture to do anything to the way he looks, but Steve knows that nervous tic. He _knows_ that. God. Who does that? Someone does that. Someone Steve knows does that.

The stranger glances around, taps two fingers on his own collarbone, and the air ripples in front of his throat.

"Not here." It's Tony's voice coming out of the stranger's mouth, hoarse and urgent. Steve's heart stutters in his chest. "Anything, anything you want, Steve, but not here, okay? Not in public. Please."

Steve guesses he wasn't the only one who considered the benefits of an image inducer.

"Okay," Steve agrees. "Not here. Where?"

_It's good to see you_ , he wants to say. _I missed you. I'm so glad you're alive._ He doesn't know if Tony wants to hear it. He doesn't know how Tony feels about him now.

"I have a place," Tony says, and Steve lets Tony take his hand again and lead him onward.

* * *

Once again Tony has confounded his expectations.

He's seen the kind of places Tony lives in. Mansions. Gleaming penthouse apartments. Tony does, generally speaking, enjoy the finer things in life. So he's more than a little surprised when the taxi deposits them outside an ordinary-looking Victorian in the middle of Noe Valley. It's a pretty house, pink with gold trim -- and it's probably worth a million-plus, easy, because this is San Francisco -- but it's not exactly up to Tony's usual standards of opulence.

"AirBnB," Tony says, in answer to the question Steve didn't ask, as Steve follows him up the steps, waits for him to open the door. "The internet is a wondrous thing, isn't it?"

"How long have you been here?" Steve pushes the door shut behind himself even as he realizes he already knows the answer. He knows when Tony went missing, after all.

Tony wobbles one hand from side-to-side, equivocating. "Eh. Couple of days." He squints at him with the stranger's hazel eyes, with another man's expressions. "How the hell did you even find me?"

With his other hand, he reaches up and flips off the image inducer, and the false face is gone, the mask fallen away. Tony looks... worn, maybe. Tired. There are fine lines around his eyes that Steve doesn't remember seeing before. Tony's mouth quirks as he sees Steve studying him; a year ago, five years ago, Tony might have followed the smile up with idle flirtation. _See something you like, soldier?_

Steve thinks they've missed their chance.

A dark curl of hair has fallen over his forehead, and Tony's hand absently rises higher to push it back.

"You move like yourself," Steve murmurs, and Tony pauses, stares at his hand in midair, and lowers it. "I mean," he adds, "I thought you might be in San Francisco, and there was obviously a lot of coincidence involved, but I-- I saw you. I knew."

He wonders what it says about him, about them, that he still knew. After everything they've done to each other. He swallows hard. "So how did you end up awake, anyway? Out of curiosity."

"Oh," Tony says, shrugging. "That was Doom."

Steve's hand reflexively flashes back to grip his shield again, and Tony's mouth lifts in a tiny smile.

"No, it's all right," he says. "He's good now. Really. It was a favor. He's Iron Man now. I guess he thought it seemed like an Iron Man sort of thing to do."

Steve regards him dubiously.

"Okay," Steve says. He'll let Tony have this. "Okay. But why haven't you--"

"Ah ah." Tony interrupts him. "My turn."

"Didn't know we were taking turns," Steve points out, as mildly as he can.

Tony grins over his shoulder, and they used to be like this, didn't they? "Well, we are. You look hungry. Come on back. I'll fix you something."

* * *

"So why are you here?"

Tony offers up his question -- the turn he had insisted on taking -- as he sets an egg sandwich down in front of Steve. Steve looks up and admires Tony, glowing golden in the morning light through the huge kitchen windows.

Forgiveness, he wants to say. Salvation. Longing.

_I love you_ , he wants to say.

He doesn't know what Tony will do if he says any of that. He doesn't want to find out that Tony's patience and grace are finite, that it all ends here, that it all ends again. Maybe now will be the last time.

"Friday asked me to find you," he says. It is, after all, also the truth. "How about you?"

Tony arches an eyebrow, and Steve knows him well enough to know that he doesn't believe that's the whole story.

"I've always liked San Francisco," Tony says, simply enough, and he turns back to the counter to crack himself an egg for his own breakfast.

Steve eats his sandwich in silence. It's excellent. Tony's a better cook than he likes to pretend he is. He listens to the pan sizzle. Outside, birds are chirping.

"They miss you, you know," Steve says, when the topic finally feels safe enough to broach, when he's got food in him, when Tony's holding a hot frying pan and can't run away. "We miss you."

With a deft flick of the spatula, Tony lifts out the egg and assembles his sandwich. "Mmm," he says, without turning around. "That's debatable."

"It's _not a debate_ ," Steve says, a little tartly. He didn't come here to listen to Tony hate himself.

Tony sits down opposite Steve. He doesn't touch his sandwich. "I started a second superhero civil war," Tony says, his voice flat. He's staring down at the plate, not quite focusing. "Because the first one apparently wasn't fucking good enough for me. So, yeah, I think maybe I can see why people might not want me around."

Steve's throat goes tight. "I pushed you into it."

He saw that, in the pool. Tony telling him, the other one of him, that he'd learned to trust him. The two of them standing together in one of Fury's old safehouses, as Steve's counterpart asks him about drinking, as he twists the knife.

Tony's head snaps up. "That wasn't you."

At least someone must have told him about the Hydra takeover.

"You didn't know that," Steve says, and his voice breaks. "You thought it was me. Everyone thought it was me. You trusted him."

"I trust _you_ ," Tony says. There are tears in his eyes. "No lies, no secrets, not anymore."

Steve leans in. "Then come back. Stop running."

Tony takes a shaking breath. His stare is a challenge. "You first."

Steve can't help but laugh.

"Don't think I didn't notice the news. Cap's gone AWOL. You've lost your goddamn faith again," Tony says, like it's like losing his car keys, like if he just looks he can find it. "You believe in people. You believe in your friends. You always fucking think you need to be Nomad, but that's the exact opposite of what's wrong. You need to not be alone."

"Well, I'm here, aren't I?" Steve asks, and Tony stops short.

Everything seems to still around them. This moment: the morning, the sudden burst of sunshine, the breakfast half-eaten. It's prosaic, everyday, and yet it feels like Steve's ten seconds from lifting the Infinity Gauntlet. Universe-changing.

Tony's eyes glitter. "And why are you here, Steve?"

"You asked me that already," Steve points out. He's stalling for time.

"I know," Tony murmurs. "But why are you here?"

Very slowly, Steve reaches out and lays his fingertips in Tony's palm. Tony's skin is warm, his hand covered in scars and calluses. Tony is trembling, minutely.

Steve can't say it aloud. He's never been good with words. Not like Tony is.

Tony smiles a soft, gentle smile. Steve's known him a decade and he's never seen this look on Tony's face before.

"Yeah," Tony breathes. "I've been waiting for you."

* * *

Afterwards, they curl around each other in blissful exhaustion. The bed is huge. The day outside is still unaccountably bright, and Tony's skin is once again gilded in the sunshine from the skylight slanted above. It's a good look on him, especially now that there's so much more of Tony to admire as he rolls over and stretches, lazy and gorgeous. He's beautiful and he knows it.

Tony pulls him close, and Steve shuts his eyes.

"Forgive me," he whispers.

Tony's fingers interlace with his. "There's nothing to forgive."

He can be brave. Brave like Tony. He can say this. They can start again. "Then come home with me."

He opens his eyes, and he sees Tony smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Have a [Tumblr post](http://sineala.tumblr.com/post/169437129844/fic-nothing-to-forgive).


End file.
